


Ficlets & Drabbles

by ygrainette



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Modern Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. Sansa/Brienne ficlets & drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of my Sansa/Brienne ficlets. They are in various different scenarios/AUs/continuities and should work as stand-alones.  
> The prompts I am using are from [this 30-day challenge.](http://luciferious.tumblr.com/post/47061826810/30-day-otp-challenge)  
> I [tumble](http://capricorn-child.tumblr.com) and the ficlets will be cross-posted to my tumblr. I dearly love feedback.
> 
> I will provide content warnings as appropriate per fic.

Brienne thinks it was Sansa's hands she first fell in love with. Fine-boned and pale, fingers long and tapering, the nails a perfect oval – but more than that – the way they move. Precise. Deliberate. Renly had talked with his hands, and even when he wasn't making some grand gesture his fingers would be drumming restlessly, toying with rings, fidgeting at sleeves. Sansa's not like that.

Whatever she does – whatever she touches – she means it. Means it exactly.

The old master-at-arms back at Evenfall Hall had taught Brienne to be aware of every part of her body, what it was doing, every moment, always. Taught her that to lose that fine-tuned awareness was to lose the fight. It's a kind of glory, that feeling.

Sansa's no warrior, but she's like that. Like that in everything.

It's overwhelming, actually, sometimes: the intent – the weight – behind the slightest touch. A hand curled feather-light in the crook of Brienne's elbow as they walk into Winterfell's great hall. Fingertips brushing down her arm to catch her attention. A palm cupping her cheek, the pad of a thumb stroking the scar massed down her cheek, tracing the line of her lip. The maddening barely-there tease of nails over the nub of Brienne's nipple. The way those long long fingers slip so easily inside her, twist and curl just so to turn her boneless with the pleasure of it. How, when Sansa has her legs spread wide and Brienne's tongue finds the right spot and the right rhythm, Sansa's hands forget their courtesy and caution and wrap themselves lifeline-tight in Brienne's hair, trembling.

Standing to attention beside her Queen, Brienne lets her gaze linger on Sansa's hands, curled pale and delicate around the great carved arms of the throne of Winter. Heat rises in her cheeks.


	2. Elements

The fire dies almost as soon as Brienne finally manages to light it, snuffed out by the remorseless sweep of the wind. She throws down the flint and iron, tears of frustration clenching her throat shut.

Lady Sansa's mittened hand squeezes her shoulder tentatively. "Don't worry. We'll make do without."

For a moment Brienne stares at her feeble attempt at a campfire, unable to face her charge. She swore to Lady Catelyn she'd protect Lady Sansa. How would it be if she delivered her from that foul man Baelish and brought her to within a league of Howland Reed's seat at the Neck, only to have her freeze to death at the roadside in a blizzard?

Failed. She's going to fail Lady Sansa like she failed Lord Renly.

" _Brienne_. We should take shelter –"

"Yes. Yes, of course. My apologies, my Lady."

She pushes back up onto her feet. Lady Sansa has the fur blanket they bartered for at the last village in her arms. Her face is hidden by hood and scarf, but her eyes smile at Brienne. So very trusting.

The nearest thing they can get to real shelter is the lee of the dry stone wall that runs along the road. For a moment Brienne considers pushing on, trying to find an inn, a barn, anything – but the wind is too high and the snow too deep. They won't make it any farther until the weather breaks.

"You take the blanket, my Lady," Brienne tells her, though she wants to weep at the thought of another night with nothing between herself and the elements. Knight of summer that she is, she never dreamed of cold like this. Cold that gnaws the roots of her teeth and the marrow of her bones. Cold that invites her to sleep.

"Don't be silly." Lady Sansa sits down, back against the wall, reaches up to touch Brienne's hand. "We have to huddle." When Brienne hesitates, she says firmly, "I grew up in the North. My lord father taught me what to do, were I ever caught in a storm. Brienne, please."

It's not proper – a true knight would not –

A sharp gust of wind cuts through Brienne, throws snow into her eyes. She can't keep her teeth from chattering. Before her Lady Sansa is visibly shivering.

Seven hells take propriety.

Brienne sits down.

Sansa presses up against her, wraps arms around her waist. Brienne pulls the fur to cover them both up to the eyes, a cocoon. Holds Sansa around the shoulders, first gently, hesitantly, then tighter as Sansa's head comes to rest on her shoulder, breath warm and damp against her neck, auburn curls brushing her face.

They breathe together. Brienne can feel Sansa shivering, and then stop. Presently it becomes warm enough under their blanket to pull off gloves and mittens and the scarves that swathe their faces, even as the blizzard screams and rages.

Brienne has never been held like this, never held anyone like this, never dared to dream of it.

"Don't worry," Sansa says softly, and kisses Brienne's cheek with chapped lips. "We're going to be all right."


	3. Books and Artifacts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern Westeros AU.  
> I'm assuming R + L = J, hence Jon being Sansa and co.'s cousin.

Dinner – that all-important First Family Dinner – goes well, for all that Brienne has been dreading it. Sansa's father is gruff and reserved, her cousin Jon even more so, and her oldest brother keeps shooting Brienne barely disguised appraising looks, but it's okay. It really is. The younger two brothers are casually friendly, while their sister eagerly interrogates Brienne about all things white-water rafting and rock-climbing. At first she'd found Catelyn Stark intimidating, but for all her top-flight-attorney polish, Sansa's mother is as warm as her daughter.

Not as bad as Brienne had feared. Not nearly as bad.

Of course she's still nervous, but by the time dessert comes out (lemon cheesecake, made by Bran and Arya in honour of Sansa getting home from college) Brienne is laughing along at Rickon's jokes, and when Robb tells a weird-professor story, she offers one of her own. Under the table, Sansa squeezes her hand, gives her a smile that makes Brienne's heart beat a little faster.

Then Arya picks a fight with Mr Stark (Brienne can't possibly call him _Ned_ ). It starts with something about a roadtrip that summer, and someone named Gendry, and spirals abruptly into Arya yelling while her father glares, stoney-faced.

Without blinking, Catelyn Stark turns to Sansa, saying smoothly, "I don't believe you finished giving Brienne the guided tour, did you, dear?"

"No, Mother, you're right," Sansa says, and tugs on Brienne's hand as she pushes her chair back from the table. "Come on, I'll show you the library."

As soon as they're out of the dining room and headed up the wide red-carpeted stairs, Sansa says, "I'm sorry – don't mind Arya, she's just going through that teenage phase, you know?"

"Yeah." The Tarths never really went in for shouting matches, but even so. Seventeen's a tricky age. "She'll come around."

"I know." For a moment they pause on the stairs for Sansa to press her lips to Brienne's, soft and quick. Then she smiles her dazzling smile, and they're off again. "The library's on the top floor – it's worth all the steps, though."

"I bet." Brienne's never been in a house with a library before. It's hard to know what to expect – a cosy little room with overflowing bookshelves, or something else entirely –

"Through here," Sansa says, letting go of Brienne's hand to push open a heavy wooden door.

And, yeah. Yeah. Definitely something else entirely.

It's a big room. A _big_ room, long and following the curve of the house, high-ceilinged, walls half wood panelling that matches the floor and half the original pale stone of Winterfell. The bookcases go all the way up to the ceiling, and on each wall there's one of those rolling ladders that Brienne didn't think existed in real life. And the books – leatherbound in what seems like a hundred different colours, some faded, some jewel-bright. More than she's ever seen in one place outside of the Oldtown College central library.

"Wow," she says inadequately. "Sansa – wow."

Sansa smiles down at her feet, bashful, and takes Brienne's hand again, leads her over a plush red rug to one of the room's alcoves. There's a bookcase of course, but also a leather armchair that looks comfortably worn, a sheepskin draped over it, and a little wooden writing desk. "Father told me to show you," she says, gesturing to the books, mostly bound in black, their spines cracked and fraying. "We've got a little collection of books on the North in the Age of Heroes – you know, Bran the Builder, the Night's King, children of the forest, all that."

"Seriously?" Brienne darts forward to look at the titles embossed in the spines of the books, fingertips hovering over them, not daring to touch. _Accounts of the Lord Commanders_ , Reed's _Chronicles of the North_ – her thesis advisor would kill to get his hands on these. 

She can hear the grin in Sansa's voice. "Yeah, I thought you might be interested, babe."

Brienne straightens up to warn her girlfriend, "Just so you know, I might spend the whole winter break up here."

Sansa makes a reproving _tsk_ noise, shaking her head, but can't keep her face straight. "You work too hard, you nerd."

"Well, you'll just have to distract me," Brienne says, waggles her eyebrows, and Sansa laughs the silent laugh that always makes Brienne crack up, and she reaches out to pull Sansa in for a kiss by the scruff of her heavy fisherman's sweater. It starts out as just a chaste press of the lips, but then Sansa winds her fingers through Brienne's hair where it curls at her nape, opens her mouth, and that's it. That's it, because, oh, Brienne could lose herself kissing Sansa. She's lost hours that way, before now.

When they break apart, Sansa sighs softly, lays her head on Brienne's shoulder, breath billowing against her throat. Brienne looks up, and the first thing she sees is –

"Sansa, is that a _real_ broadsword?"

"What?" Sansa lifts her head, confused, then catches sight of the opposite wall, the weapon resting on display hooks sunk into the stone wall. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, it's real. Valyrian steel, an heirloom, you know? Do you want to look?"

From across the room, the sword looks big. Up close, it's gigantic – five and a half feet long, easily. The blade is dark, shimmering with rippling patterns all across the length of it. The hilt is carved with symbols Brienne recognises from her Ancient Languages as the runes of the First Men.

All of a sudden it hits her – this is a sword that has belonged to the Stark family for _millennia,_ just as they have lived in this house (call it what it is, Brienne, this _castle_ ) for millennia. And it's not like she didn't know that the Starks are old money, the oldest of old money, but … Well, seven hells, she just never really connected it to _Sansa_.

She's never associated Sansa with any of the other kids she knows from Great Houses. All that ostentatious wealth, the arrogance, the driving to college in brand-new cars, the clothes with four-figure price tags, it never seemed to have anything to do with Sansa with her Doc Martens and oversized men's shirts and homemade dresses and broad frozen-wastes accent. But however unlike them she might be – she _is_ one of them. Born into privilege Brienne can only dream of. Born into legend.

And here Brienne is, in the library of a castle that has stood for eight thousand years, a library that holds books written when the Others still roamed the earth, a sword forged in dragon fire and engraved with the script of the world's first written language. On winter break from university. With her girlfriend, who is at once the eldest daughter of the continent's longest-surviving dynasty, and the girl who eats butter popcorn with Brienne while watching shitty television and laughing till they cry.

"Are you – are you okay?" Sansa is flushing, redhead-bright, worrying at her plush lower lip. Embarrassed. The way she was that time a barista in their on-campus coffee shop asked her if she was _really_ Sansa Stark, if she'd _really_ gone to one of the Lannisters' charity balls with Loras Tyrell, and every last person in the place stared at her until they left.

Ancient swords and mythical ancestors be damned. Sansa's just _Sansa_ , same as Brienne's just _Brienne_.

She squeezes Sansa's hand. "Yeah. It's a bit of a head trip, but I'm fine. Used to you being a weirdo."

"Oh, that's it – " Long fingers poke at her ribs, and Sansa shrieks when Brienne grabs at that spot at her waist which always makes her flail – and there they are. Laughing and laughing and laughing, crying with it, and when Sansa's cousin Jon arrives to summon them back downstairs, he stares at them in total mystification as they laugh even harder at his confused-puppy expression, and yeah.

This whole Meet The Family thing's not nearly as bad as Brienne had feared. It's not bad at all.

This, she could get used to.


	4. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Brienne is a veteran.

Sansa wakes slowly. Swims her way up through the mist of sleep, driven by a sense of urgency but uncertain as to _why_. Comes to with her face pressed damply against the pillow, the air cold where her ankle sticks out from under the blankets. Her alarm clock reads 04:23, blinking blood-red through the dark. Beside her, Brienne's long body is rigid.

 _Damn it_.

"Brienne." She comes up on one elbow, grips Brienne's arm at the bicep. Beneath the clammy skin she can feel the muscles twitching with tension. " _Brienne_."

"No. No." Brienne's head tosses, blonde curls falling sweaty over her face. "No."

Sansa kicks at the tangle of sheets and blankets, draws her legs up under her so she's kneeling. Ready to move if she has to. If Brienne comes up swinging.

"Brienne, babe. Wake up. Brienne."

It's not dramatic. Not quite movie-spectacular. No screaming. Sansa's never heard Brienne scream, not even neck-deep and lost in a flashback. It's just – one moment to the other – her eyes flick open, pale irises ringed by white, and her breath catches, breaking audibly on the cage of her ribs.

And there she is. If not entirely present, then not entirely gone.

Brienne sits up sharply. Sansa scoots back to give her her space. Hesitates for a moment, lip caught in the trap of her teeth, then ventures, "Want a drink, babe?" Her voice is smooth and calm and she silently thanks her finishing school for teaching her to lie so easy she almost fools herself.

"Please." It comes out muffled. Brienne's face is pressed hard against the knobs of her knees. She hates for anyone to see her cry. Even Sansa.

Sansa touches the crown of her head for a second as she gets to her feet. Pulls on the heavy dressing gown her mother gave her. Ducks through the beaded curtain and pads barefoot into their kitchen. Fills their kettle, puts a bag of chamomile tea in each of the two nearest clean mugs. Pours in the boiling water, lets it steep for a couple of minutes and scoops the teabags out.

She carries the two mugs back into the bedroom. Brienne is sitting on the edge of the bed now, arms hanging down limply between her knees. Staring at the wall. When Sansa holds out a mug to her, she lifts her right hand and takes it mechanically. Holds it with two hands. The vulnerable flesh of her bare arms is stippled with goosepimples.

Sansa puts her own tea down on the bedside table, and walks back to the foot of the bed to gather up the quilt. There's a chink in the curtains, letting through a shaft of tired yellow sodium-lamp light. It cuts across Brienne's back, throwing into sharp relief the points of her spine that poke against her worn tanktop, and the dark keloid scar at the base of her shoulder blade.

The urge to kiss that scar is overwhelming. To press her lips to it, as though Sansa could kiss away the phantom pain and the memories, take on all that suffering herself. Would that she could. And more than that – to reassure herself that Brienne is here. Alive. Scars are proof of life, of survival, of healing, even if it comes at a cost. They tell Sansa that Brienne went to war and she came back. And for that Sansa loves them. Loves them fiercely, wants to worship them, every last one.

But the time for that is later. That's not what Brienne needs, right now. And they have all the time in the world for Sansa to kiss every beloved inch of her, later.

Approaching from the side, keeping herself in Brienne's sightline, Sansa puts the quilt around her shoulders. Sits down beside her, their shoulders and hips and knees pressed together, and pulls the quilt so it cocoons them both.

Brienne leans her head on Sansa's shoulder, and she kisses her tangled hair. Strokes her soft cheek.

"I'm here. I'm here. No more nightmares."


End file.
